


Needle Points North

by odoridango



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hitchhiking, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odoridango/pseuds/odoridango
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After ten years, Jean and Eren meet each other again on the side of a dusty, New Mexico highway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needle Points North

**Author's Note:**

> Was written for erejean week day 1, for the prompt road trip.

He meets Eren Jaeger again on the side of the road on his way back from his cousin’s wedding. It’s been years, but he recognizes him right away, the scruffy head of brown hair, the easy slouch of the body, the thick brows and the bright eyes, the generous line of his mouth and the odd confidence of the silhouette.

“Hey Jaeger,” he says, sending up little dust puffs as he swings open the door of his used, beat-up Honda Civic. “Get in.”

“Fuck me,” Eren mutters, looking at him disbelief, clutching at the bulky camera bag resting on his hip and the huge pack at his feet, and Jean can’t help but laugh, a little open, a little ragged, transported back to ten years ago, to high school hell and desperate denial and the alienation afterwards, when he left to go to school so far away from home.

“Not with a ten foot pole,” Jean retorts, slides into old skin easy as anything, his hands no longer tight on the steering wheel, mouth no longer taut with frustration. Eren was a lucky charm, he remembers, a status quo, a comfort because Eren gave no fucks so Jean didn’t feel like he had to give any either.

_“What about you, Jeanbo?”_

Question of the day, question of the week, question of the fucking month; it was the ultimate wedding and family reunion question everyone had been asking him. Seeing his successful relatives, a top university graduate here, a prestigious start-up entrepreneur there, an investment banker with a six figure salary and outrageously large apartments in major cities across five countries, Jean had felt very very small in his still tall and skinny frame, in his rented grey suit, working a bakery apprenticeship. A well-regarded bakery, but a bakery nonetheless. Nobody would look at him and be happy to call their son a baker. How his mother didn’t die of shame when Aunt Felicia from his father’s side had a daughter who was the cream of the catwalk crop, or when the bride herself was the CFO of a major firm, he doesn’t know.

But somehow seeing Eren, out of nowhere, on the side of this dusty road, everything feels a little better. Everything feels a little brighter.

“…where are you headed?” Jean asks, kicking the engine back in gear.

Eren looks at him a little defensively, arms wrapped protectively around his camera bag, with the same little scowl he wore in sophomore year when Reiner told him there was no way Eren could take him down. Reiner ended up with a broken nose, and Eren had been very upset about it.

“…California,” Eren grumbles. “Got a gig there. Big Sur.”

“Lucky you,” Jean snorts, “as usual. I live in San Francisco.”

“Of course you do,” Eren mutters, and turns to the window.

 _What the fuck does that mean_ , Jean desperately wants to ask, and now he’s back where he’s started again, he’s back to _What are you doing Jeanbo_ , he’s back to worrying about his rising rent and whether or not his seemingly neverending externship’s teaching him anything, or if he’s even worth teaching, he’s back to lonely weekend two AM mornings where no one’s home except him and some crap-ass Bud Light in the fridge, watching some drunk person shit on the street corner as he’s closing his window. There isn’t even anything to see outside the goddamn car; they’re on the utter desert wasteland that is New Mexican highway.

“How’s Mikasa and Armin?”

Eren fixes him with a suspicious squint. “If you’re still being a creep about Mikasa, she’s still not intere—“

“Shut up, fuck it, forget I asked anything,” Jean snaps, terse, biting out the words. “Fuck. That was a goddamn _decade_ ago, why can’t you just let go of things—“

“You’re right, it was a decade ago,” Eren says, and he’s learned how to make his voice go cold and frigid, “But a decade ago you were a creep and a pretentious _prick_ —“

“Have you ever thought that people change, huh?! Ever think of that?!” Jean shouts, and he’s very lucky so few people are on this road because he’s pushing the speed limit just a little too far. Pressing his lips together, he eases up on the throttle. Radio on; tinny, slightly static-y pop plays over the speakers.

“Can’t believe I was happy to see you,” he says bitterly. “I got over that crush on Mikasa after half a year. Nobody would fucking let it go.”

Eren doesn’t say anything, just stares at the side of his head with that laser sight gaze of his, as if tracking something.

“I’m a photographer now,” he says, and the twist of his mouth just dares Jean to say something rude and sarcastic. “For travel sites. Magazines. I freelance.”

Jean doesn’t tell him it suits him. Eren was always the one who wanted to go on spontaneous trips, always wanted to go on adventures. He was curious, and wasn’t afraid to ask questions. That was why Eren was so annoying. That was why Eren felt so free. Eren didn’t answer to anyone but himself.

“...how’d you end up here?” Jean says. Eren’s always been good for stories. Why hasn’t he left yet? Demanded to get out of the car? Perhaps he just has no other options.

“Motorcycle died,” Eren mutters, and Jean just watches him shrink into himself and pout like a five year old. “Called my insurance company and then my phone fuckin’ up and died too.”

“Nice,” Jean snorts. “I’m on my way back from a family wedding. A cousin. Thought he was gonna keep her waiting forever.”

“Sounds fun,” Eren says, shuffling uncomfortably. “Look, I’m sorry. You were right. But, it’s a shock you know? It’s been _ten years._ We probably don’t know even each other anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t,” Jean says, looking straight down the yawning length of the road. The thoughts swirl in his head and he feels like he might be high, like he’s working on three cups of espresso, or on a baking streak late at night. Hope again, like a poison, crawling up his throat. _What are you doing, Jeanbo? What are you doing._ He’d dropped out of law school with enough internship experience under his belt to work as an executive assistant until he had gathered the money to go to culinary school. That’s what he did. And he’d done it because he wasn’t happy, because he couldn’t believe that he wasn’t supposed to be something better for himself.

“You’re so…obsessed,” Eren had told him the night of prom. Jean had come down with a cold, and he hadn’t had anyone to go with anyway. Eren just had no interest in going, but he’d showed up on Jean’s doorstep with a sparkly silver tiara in hand to plop on top of his head, just in time to scatter glitter into the remnants of Jean’s chicken noodle soup. He’d been scooted close to Jean on the sofa, heedless of the germs, head tucked into Jean’s shoulder drowsily, barely aware of the movie they’d been playing. “You always want to do the right, proper thing, the thing that people want you to do. I know why, you know? I don’t want to disappoint Mom, or Mikasa. But you know, you shouldn’t have to suffer for it. There’s no way you’re happy like this.”

At the time Jean hadn’t said anything, too dizzy and tired from the cold medicine to fight back. He’d just closed his eyes wearily and leaned his cheek on Eren’s head, as close to an admission as he was going to get. Eren had held his hand, held it until Jean was asleep. When Jean woke up, Eren had left. Three months later, they graduated from high school, and Jean hadn’t seen or heard of Eren since. Even keeping in contact with Armin, Jean didn’t know how Eren had been doing. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to ask.

But Eren is here, sitting in his car. Jean is still unhappy, and he wonders if Eren is satisfied. He wonders if Eren is happy. He’d felt inferior, downtrodden, the entire weekend, and it’s just another echo in an endless series of echoes that should mean something to him, should tell him something, but somehow it takes Eren to make him remember. Somehow it always seems to come back to him.

“If you don’t have anywhere to stay yet, room with me,” Jean says, and he’s a little surprised at how strong the words are, how quick they fly, despite the heat in his cheeks. “I need a roommate. You won’t need a hotel. You won’t have to spend money on take-out. I bake for a living, so I know all the cheap eats and all the dive bars.” His hands clench on the steering wheel, and he glances at Eren, just a little, out the corner of his eye. Eren’s eyes are wide, he’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before—it’s a look Jean doesn’t remember and it makes him a little nervous, a little eager.

“Live with me,” Jean says, “And then you can get to know me better.”

It’s silent for minutes as Eren looks him over, runs over the lines of crumpled black tee, comfort jeans, beat-up Vans. Reaching over, he turns off the radio.

“You know, I think I will,” he says, with a quiet smile, eyes glimmering. “It’s nice to meet you, Jeanbo. I hope we have a good life together.”

Jean chokes on his spit. Eren makes him pull over, and promptly claims the driver’s seat for his own, cackling madly. Jean feels like he should regret everything already, but with a spare water bottle in his hand, and Eren chattering animatedly in the front seat about motorcycling up from Texas, he thinks maybe this time, taking the risk will have been worth it.


End file.
